Glimpse
by Countess Jackman
Summary: There were times when he had a sneaking suspicion that she was staring at him.


A/N: Just a bit of lighthearted L/J. Enjoy!

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><p>There were times when he had a sneaking suspicion that she was staring at him. Not looking, not glancing, but full on staring at him. Like there was no one else in the room, like he was the only thing that mattered. But then his curiosity would get the better of him and he would pick up his head to see if he was right, to see if she was actually staring at him the way he stared at her, but always, she wasn't.<p>

Always, she looked the other way. Or she, quite literally, had her nose in a book. Or she was engaged in a deep discussion with a very befuddled friend, who would nod and smile like they knew what was going on.

She could run circles round your head, if you let her. She could run circles, with her stream of red hair billowing behind her and a wicked smile on her face. Oh, he knew that very, very well.

He tried not to let it get the better of him, her constant rejection. He suspected that most of the time, she wasn't even aware she was rejecting him. She might have possessed a nasty temper, but she wasn't cruel. In fact, he was quite certain there wasn't a single mean bone in her body; how else would she have put up with Snape for all those years?

Still, though he knew the rejection was mostly unconscious, it stung. A lot. Like one of her sharp slaps to the face, but instead of his cheek reddening and sizzling and burning with the general humiliation that came with being slapped by the girl you fancied from here to the ends of the universe, she left a handprint on his heart. It was stupid, it was clichéd, and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself.

He was lovesick. Sick with love for a girl who couldn't have cared less about him.

Well, perhaps that wasn't true. She had a warm heart, a good heart. She cared about everyone, including him, even if she didn't like him very much. Kind-hearted or not, tat didn't mean she had to like him. It didn't even mean she had to acknowledge him, which she didn't.

But still, there were moments, faint flashes of recognition just in the corner of his eye, the seconds his mates told him to forget about because, in all reality, they probably weren't even real, that he swore she was looking at him.

No, not looking.

_Staring_.

Similar to every moment, however, it would pass, spiralling out of the night-time sky and plummeting like a suicidal star to Earth. The impact hurt, but eventually, he got over it.

Well, most of the time.

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><p>One of these days, he would catch her.<p>

One of these days, she wouldn't be fast enough. She wouldn't be able to pull her gaze away and make herself look distracted, and he would see her. He would catch her and laugh at her, and oh, the shame.

She had never taken well to being proven wrong, and she had a feeling - an inkling that niggled at the back of her mind - that told her when everything was said and done, when she was found out for the fraud she was, he would never let her forget it. He would never let her forget that, in the end, he was right. She would fall for him.

And she did.

She fell hard. And quick, too. She always thought the path to love was long and languid, not short and swift, like the rapids of a river. But just like the rapids of a wild river, there was an under toe, and it had pulled her under before she knew what was happening. One minute, she was indifferent and the next, she couldn't keep her eyes off of him.

Sometimes, like today, she liked to sit across library from him at some dingy little study table and idly let her eyes wander his form. She took in the line of his broad shoulders, the smooth curve of his back as he hunkered over a textbook, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the slope of his nose, his chin supported by his hand as he flipped through a book, his lips moving as they silently formed the words from the page. She pretended it was her name that he spoke, not some wizard from a long, long time ago who fought in this war against that enemy over some peculiar trophy that no one really cared about.

It was silly, really, her reluctance to let him catch her. She wasn't scared and she wasn't nervous. To be honest, she didn't know what it was, what was holding her back, almost warning her to keep her distance. Maybe it was her conscience telling her to hold steady, to wait until the opportune moment before taking the plunge off the cliff and into what would undoubtedly be insanity.

And maybe it wasn't her conscience at all. Maybe she enjoyed the chase, knowing that he was getting close, but wasn't quite there yet. That he was on her tail, ready to ensnare her and bring her down and to him.

It was an entertaining thought, sure, but she knew that it wasn't because of her conscience or because she enjoyed the chase. In all reality, she hated the chase. She hated waiting and she hated listening to her conscience; what good was reason, anyway? She was more of a gut-instinct type of girl, and at that very moment, it told her to go with it. To let him look, if only she dared.

She licked her lips, tucked a strand of wayward red hair behind her ear, and took a deep breath. Anticipation prickled at the back of her neck, crawling over the rest of her skin as the moment drew nearer.

This was it.

Her breath hitched in her throat as he turned his head in her direction. Her conscience, the damned thing, wanted her to raise the book to cover her face or for her to tilt her head just a little so it looked as though she was reading. But she didn't.

She looked right at him.

No, not look.

She _stared_.

And, not unsurprisingly, he stared back. Though, admittedly, he looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, unsure if he should stay put or if he should run as fast and as strong as his legs could carry him.

She couldn't help it; she laughed, a light blush creeping onto her cheeks. But still, she didn't lift her book to cover her face.


End file.
